


this sudden inexplicable madness

by graceverse



Series: 31 Days of Jonsa [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AND au, F/M, it's just a kiss, mix of book and tv, nothing too distubing, underage-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: If Gendry had not been drinking too much, Jon suspected he would not have asked this utterly awkward question because honestly, Jon did not want to know details of anyone’s first kiss and not just any kiss, kisses from mothers and aunts did not count. Well, at least kisses that were familial and that had nothing to do with a painful-delicious stirring on their bodies. Gendry had been very exact.  And Jon could only guess why Gendry had asked in the first place. If Gendry had wanted to get some sound advice, this would not be the right venue or the right men to ask.Day 1 of The 31 Days of Jonsa





	this sudden inexplicable madness

**Author's Note:**

> Bit late. So sorry. I hope I can do all 31 days but oooh, work and RL hasn't been cooperating but I will try my very best. Thank you in advance for reading. Many thanks for the fabulous jonsa community, for all the love and inspiration!

“My sister.” There was a heavy thoughtful pause as everyone around the table waited with bated breath. “Well, she isn’t actually _my_ sister; she’s more like **_a_** sister. I grew up with her and she took care of me when I was this small,” Tormund held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart, frowned and shook his head.  “Bit bigger than that,” he amended, looking cross eyed, “Wasn’t truly sure if she was of my blood and all that. Large woman though. Definitely. Nice big hefty breasts. Wide hips.  Not at all ugly, mind you. Hekla, we called her. ” Tormund answered, his face suddenly taking on a different shine, an old long ago memory touching him.

“Aye, I miss that woman. Used to scream at me all the fucking time. ‘Ave not seen her since she got stolen by one of the men from the ice river clan. Don't know what happened to her. ” Tormund was silent after a whole second, aggressively wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as though trying to rid himself of the odd feelings that had surfaced after he answered Gendry’s query.

If Gendry had not been drinking too much, Jon suspected he would not have asked this utterly awkward question because honestly, Jon did not want to know details of anyone’s first kiss and not just any kiss, kisses from mothers and aunts did not count. Well, at least kisses that were familial and that had nothing to do with a painful-delicious stirring on their bodies. Gendry had been very exact.  And Jon could only guess _why_ Gendry had asked in the first place. If Gendry had wanted to get some sound advice, this would not be the right venue or the right men to ask.

And even if Gendry had asked Davos – probably the only person Jon thought will give a decent enough guidance – it wouldn’t do Gendry any good. Gendry has his work cut out for him. Arya will not so easily relinquish her freedom. Not that Jon thought Gendry would hinder her, but still, at her age, Arya would be willfully against any sort of romance. She’d be more embarrassed at having _tender_ feelings towards anyone.

Jon already felt a little sorry for Gendry but he was in an even worse situation. At least Gendry and Arya were not blood related. Jon despondently shook his head. He could not veer the conversation towards a different subject as everyone around the table had answered eagerly, sharing stories, murmuring and cursing names, depending on their experiences. The men had enthusiastically warmed up to the conversation, almost as though in a desperate attempt to try and forget that tomorrow will be another day of preparing for their battle against the army of the dead.

Mornings were spent relentlessly training, trying to effectively wield their dragonglass spears. Most of them were more adept at sword fighting and it was an entirely new skill using a spear; its length and weight was so very different from the swords that they were used to. But it was impossible to start making swords made of dragonglass. There was a severe shortage of blacksmiths at the castle and there were too many Lords and knights and soldiers that needed to be armed. A spear was more practical and easier to make.

Gendry had fashioned himself a hammer with dragonglass for its edges, testament to his cleverness at being a blacksmith. Even Arya had been envious. She wanted to fight with them but Jon had tasked her to lead the defense at Winterfell should they fail. She hated agreeing to this but there was no other choice. All able men will fight with him, the few that will remain and guard Winterfell needed a fierce warrior to lead them and Aryad had to concede that she did fit the description. She will protect Winterfell and Bran and Sansa. And if needed, if Jon turned into a wight, at least he was certain that Arya will be able to put a sword through him. She might not like it, she’ll hate him forever for it, but she was, before anything else, a wolf and a wolf will always protect her pack no matter what.

After their training, in the afternoon, they all had to sit down and listen to Free Folk’s story about the wights. They needed to know who they were up against and none of them have ever seen a dead man walking, had never fought someone who wasn’t afraid of any weapon, who didn’t bleed and didn’t get hurt, who will keep coming at you even after you’ve hacked off half of their body. Free Folks’ tales were gruesome, the stuff nightmares were made of – clawing bones skittering and scraping at the snow-covered land, jaws snapping as you stab them inside empty eye sockets, a torso dragging its way towards you – Free Folks liked telling these stories, liked the way the Southern kneelers shuddered at every horrifying detail of how they have constantly fought against the wights. In the end thoughm the Free Folks had to admit that they had not been able to defeat the dead, instead they had lost friends and family, children and wives and husbands and had to flee past The Wall. The only chance they all have at surviving the Night King and his army is if they fought together and even that wasn’t an assurance of success. The Night King now has a dragon wight.

Jon winced at the thought. Whatever advantage he had hoped they had with Dany’s dragons had significantly decreased and every one of them knew that. It was a daily struggle trying to tamp down their fear and desperation and Jon could not deny the men their right to drink themselves into stupor at night.

Sometimes, he wished he could do the same, but he was afraid what he might say or do once he gained the courage brought about by too much ale. There’s a certain room he’d be sure to visit. He wouldn’t even knock, he’d come barging in and wordlessly, desperately take her into his arms, crush her against his body, smother her with kisses. He would beg for her forgiveness, would demand that she look at him, would gently ask her if she could love him back, he would make her peak as he drink her in, lapping up her sweetness, pulling the auburn hair on her mound to make her whimper his name, beg him for more…

“Probably his sister too, eh, Snow?” Tormund asked, playfully elbowing him.

Jon snorted ale out of his nose, the burn instantly bringing tears into his eyes. He wiped his face and swallowed hard. What? Fuck. Had he said _anything_ out loud? Did he moan her name?

Tormund looked at him in utter disgust and disappointment, grunting angrily. “Snow, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“What?” He asked in a strangled gravelly voice.

Davos peered at him from his cup and decided to rescue him from himself. “It’s quite common and not completely unheard of. Siblings grow up together, have built enough trust to try and,” Davos coughed delicately, “experiment...” he finished, his voice slightly fading as he arched his eyebrows at Jon.

Jon didn’t meet Davos’ enquiring gaze. Davos never got drunk, was always clear headed. He would remember everything that was said and done and while that was something Jon had encouraged and relied upon, tonight he wished Davos would conveniently forget about this. He felt his face was too open right now and Jon was certain that he would not be able to hide this ever growing feeling that had somehow taken root at his very core, slowly growing stronger regardless of how he constantly tried to fight against it.

The tension him and Sansa didn't just suddenly spring up out of nowhere. It had _always_ been there. Lurking and buried underneath layers upon layers of memories, all those years spent apart, thinking each one dead and lost and to have found her again, it stirred something inside Jon that was both familiar and terrifying. He couldn't understand it. It was like he had known these feelings for Sansa long before he had been able to hold her close and that it wasn't just him. Behind the calmness in her blue eyes, Jon could sometimes glimpse of a storm raging there, one that he could so easily drown in on.

Jon felt as though he had lived thousands of lives: as a bastard boy, unloved by a woman with dark auburn hair; one as a sworn brother that lived on the edge of the world; another as a traitor, holding on to a dead girl with fire on her hair; recently as King  who had to compromise and bend his knee for the sake of his people, and now as weary warrior ready to give up.

And where was Sansa in all these lives he had lived in? Always in the shadows, fleeting and fluid. He was always unable to take hold of her her and pin her to him.

Jon shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. “You’re forgetting I’m a bastard. Hardly allowed near Lord Starks’ precious daughters.”

A lie. One that Davos was quick to catch. And from where Gendry was seating, Jon could sense his stare. Gendry knew that he and Arya shared a strong bond and Jon wondered if perhaps Gendy was wondering if he shared any kisses with Arya when they were younger. Jon felt his lips twitching up. A ridiculous notion. Arya was his little sister, he cared of her the same way Robb had cared for Sansa when they had been younger. And anyway, if he had tried, Arya would have laughed at him and then made him bleed. Sansa on the other hand...

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t even asking about _your_ first kiss, you bloody idiot.” Tormund gave him another dirty look.

“Lord Snow is beneath this kind of talk.” The lazy drawl came from the farthest end of the table as Jamie Lannister very casually tilted his head and gave him an all-knowing smirk.

Jon tightly clenched his fist, glaring at The Kingslayer. He hated him with a force of a thousand winter storms and he wanted nothing than to throw him out of the castle. Always so sure of himself, so certain of his place in Winterfell. It galled Jon like nothing else. It had nothing to do with Jaimie swearing his life to Sansa and Sansa accepting him in front of everyone in the castle. The almost present urge to take off Jaime’s other hand wasn’t because Jon once caught him fingering the ends of Sansa’s hair. Of course not. No. He loathed Jaime for all those reasons and more.

“Don’t have to tell us who was your first kiss was, Kingslayer,” some knight from the Vale said, obviously too drunk to realize who he was talking to but Jaime didn’t seem to mind. He let out a long slow smile and shook his head in amusement. 

“If you’re thinking of my sweet, sweet sister, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” He chuckled lightly his eyes gleaming merrily, “and if you think I’ll give you the pleasure of sharing the information, like we’re _friends_ , apologies good knight, for I will have to dissatisfy you once again. We are _not_ friends. I do not engage in juvenile conversations such as this.” He paused, soaking in the tense silence that suddenly surrounded them. “But if you asked me who I first fucked, though…”

There was an uproarious laughter all around as everyone cheered and some even heartily clapped Jaime at the back. Tomorrow they will all regret these friendly gestures but nothing would dampen their good spirit. This was the only time they could laugh and forget the monsters they would soon have to face.  

Jaime very discreetly gave Jon a small salute and Jon wanted to tear his throat open, (also not because Jaime seemed to always know what to say to Sansa to make her smile, of course not) instead he abruptly stood up, silencing the table once again. “Forgive me my Lords, but I will have to excuse myself. I need to look at some of Sam’s weapon designs that we can use to bring down a dragon wight.”

His pronouncement immediately sobered everyone at their table and the men grunted in reply, slightly exasperated at being reminded of what they were about to face. Some sent Jon unmasked glares as they slouched into their chairs, staring into their cups in morbid, contemplative silence. Jon briefly felt guilty but he didn’t have any ready excuse and it was the only thing he could think of. It wasn’t a lie, anyway. He was supposed to meet Sam earlier. He did not have the time to try and soothe them, he had suddenly grown weary and he wanted nothing more than the solace of his room and Ghost’s calming silence.

He turned and immediately took his leave, desperately trying to escape Gendry’s question.

_“Who was your first kiss?”_

Because Jon suddenly remembered. He remembered _everything_.  

 

* * *

 

Sansa had always been beautiful.

Ever since he died and was brought back to life, Jon’s memory had been tangled up, like threads that snagged and pulled. There were things he remembered clearly but some were like the faded tapestries in Winterfell, there were colors he could point out but everything else was a blur. If he tried to remember anything in particular, he couldn’t recall it correctly. It would start off with something familiar: a smile, a laugh, red hair shining like fire, a brotherly hug and a dagger to his hear and then abruptly it would end with darkness or the blankness of white snow. His memories were incomplete. Muddled up with other memories, with dreams and nightmares and it was like patches of clothes that had been sewn together that did not make sense and did not fit together.

But when Gendry asked his question, Jon was slammed by the memory of her and spring and the scent of something fresh and citrusy and suddenly, everything about Sansa was so easy – _too -_ easy to remember. As though a dam had burst inside of him and he was flooded by the memories he had thought he had forever lost.   

 

* * *

 

Sansa had always been beautiful.

He could remember that as clearly and as surely as he was of how he had discovered the direwolf puppies years and years ago. Jon could not remember Sansa being born though, he was only three years old at that time. He didn’t remember anything about Sansa except she had been a precious bundle that Lady Catleyn always lovingly carried around the castle. Jon’s first memory of her was her blue eyes. I had captivated him. Robb’s eyes were blue, but it was a darker shade. Sansa’s had been luminous, the blue of far-off snow-capped mountains that he could see on clear days. Or the blue of winter roses that grew on Winterfell’s glass house. Like the wings of a common blue butterfly that he’d see during a lazy summer afternoons, perched on the outside walls of Winterfell.

Jon remembered wanting Sansa to be his. Not the way he wanted her _now_ , it was different then. Sansa being his meant that he was a true part of father’s family, not a boy born so far from the North, he should not have even been called “Snow”, not the boy who could not call Lady Catelyn, “mother”. If Sansa had been _his_ sister, he would have been allowed to hold her hands the way Robb held hers as they walked around the castle’s premises.

Jon remembered being a broken hearted little boy who could only quietly trail behind Robb and Sansa. He could make the best flower crowns but it did not matter, Sansa only wore the ones Robb made. He had stronger legs than Robb and could easily carry Sansa on his back whenever they played deep into the forest and she got tired of walking back home, but she only sleepily snuggled into Robb’s back as they emerged from the trees.

Jon had always kept his distance. He felt it was what Lady Catelyn wanted and expected of him and Jon did everything to avoid slighting his father’s lady wife. In the end, he had to give up whatever affection he had felt towards his sister. He was not allowed to love her the way Robb did and it was the first time Jon truly felt that he was a bastard son.

Years passed and he and Sansa had grown up distant towards each other. They did not fight (as he and Robb sometimes did) but they did not spend time together either (as he and Arya and Bran and Rickon always did). She was never mean or cruel to him and he never cared for any of her girlish dreams and sorrows. Arya complained about it all the time though, so Jon was always aware of how Sansa would grow despondent every time she wasn’t able to sew something delicate and beautiful. Jon knew she fancied some Night’s Watch ranger. Arya thought at least that was an improvement from being fond of dead knights in silly songs. When King Robert arrived in Winterfell, Arya had gritted her teeth, savagely rolled her eyes at the very idea of wanting to be married to the idiot-looking, pale faced Prince of Nothing.

“Seven Kingdoms,” Jon had corrected her and Arya spat at the ground, looking extremely proud of herself as she looked down at her work. “And don’t ever do that in front of your Lady Mother.”

“Sansa is an idiot. I wish she’d stop being so foolish and annoying and that she wasn’t my sister at all!”

“You can’t mean that.” Jon had murmured gently, ruffling Arya’s hair, but deep down, Jon had wanted to tell her that he wished differently and that if he had the chance, he wanted nothing more than to be Sansa’s brother, to be allowed to feel indignant at their father’s choice for her betrothed, because surely their father did not think that Baratheon boy deserved Sansa? But he could not voice this out loud. He was meant to blend into the background, huddled in the dark corners of Winterfell, away from Sansa’s radiance.

 

* * *

 

Two days before they were set to leave Winterfell, Jon had packed his few belongings; he was headed to The Wall with his Uncle Benjen. He felt utterly torn about it: on one hand, it was something that he felt he needed to do, to forge his own path. There was nothing that was for him in Winterfell, it all belonged to Robb and though he did not begrudge Robb of that, he was saddened by the fact that he had to leave everything behind so that he could be a man that his father would be proud to have. It wasn't a difficult choice, really. It was, after all, a Stark that had had built The Wall and for thousands of years the Starks had supported and respected The Wall and those who had bravely chosen a life of Night's Watch. The Wall was part of the Stark’s legacy. Being sworn into the Brotherhood that protected the realm was something noble and at the very least, Jon hoped, would be filled with adventure.

If he stayed in Winterfell, he would be nothing but a bastard for all his life. At The Wall though, he could be more than just Ned Stark’s bastard son. He wasn't quite sure what he'd be able achieve, but he vowed he will never go back to Winterfell without accomplishing something significant. Maybe becoming the youngest ranger ever in history of The Wall, or something far greater than that. Jon day dreamed of coming back to Winterfell and being welcomed with cheers, affectionate hugs and even the proud hard thumping on his back or chest. A part of him wanted to come back here as an equal to Robb when he becomes the Lord of Winterfell. Did that make him seem petty and jealous? He didn't think so. But he still felt slightly guilty for wanting more and then angry for feeling like that he didn't deserve it, just because his mother was some unnamed woman that Lord Eddard Stark had not married. 

Jon had been filled with conflicting thoughts that he had failed to realize that he was not alone and that he was almost upon Sansa, who was kneeling beneath the weir tree, her long auburn hair brushing the fallen autumn leaves on the ground. She had her forehead pressed against the tree and Jon almost turned away, intending to let her have her privacy as she prayed to the old gods, when Sansa very slowly brought her hand to her eyes and Jon saw the tears shining on her face.

He swallowed hard. She had looked radiant at the feast; he could still see her smiling face as she sat at the dais, but the afternoon sun did wonderful things to her and radiant seemed like a sorry, inadequate way to describe her. There was a coppery shine to hair that made her look warm and something inside Jon’s chest painfully clenches.  Before he knew it, he had taken a step towards Sansa, gently calling out her name.

She looked up, startled, her watery blue eyes brimming with tears. “Sansa, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?’” Jon watched as Sansa shook her head, sniffed daintily, wiping the tears from her trembling chin. She looked so incredibly vulnerable, Jon felt his hands clenching into tight fits. “Did someone--” Jon stopped, dropped to his knees so he could inspect her for any wounds.  When it was apparent that she was uninjured, he looked back up to her, surprised to see her looking so intently at him. Jon immediately realized that this was the closest he had even been to her and as he tried to read her face, he noticed the dark curl of Sansa’s eyelashes, the small barely-there flecks of grey in her irises. He was suddenly breathless and unsure of what to say next. “Please tell me you aren’t hurt.”

“I- I’m fine, Jon. I’m not… It’s not like that.” She stammered prettily, a faint pink flush blooming from her cheeks.

“Would you like me to call Robb?” He asked. She would probably be more comfortable talking to him and Jon felt he’d be more comfortable too if he could escape her sad soft sighs.

Sansa shook her head and shifted away from the tree, sitting down on the ground as she very gingerly smoothed out her gowns. “No. I—Robb would not be very helpful right now,” and before Jon could open his mouth, Sansa gave him the smallest of grins, “and definitely not Arya.”

Jon had to fight back the smirk threatening to spill from his lips. He _was_ going to suggest Arya, but now that he had thought about it, it seemed incredibly silly of him. “Is there anyone you would like me to fetch for you? Or would you rather be alone? Do you want me to go? I didn’t mean to intrude or…”

“Stop, please. It’s fine. I just…” Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, as though trying to organize her thoughts. Finally she looked back up at him and slightly tilted her head, “you’re leaving Winterfell, too. To The Wall, with Uncle Benjen.”

“Aye, I am.” Arya or Robb had probably told her. She had never really shown any interest in him and this was quite new. Unexpected but not unwelcome. 

“Aren’t you scared?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes widening. “I – we have never been so far from Winterfell, and now all of a sudden we’re leaving and sometimes I… I can’t wait to go. I want to see the South and King’s Landing and the Lords and the Ladies and Knights...”

“From the songs?” Jon asked, startled at his sudden boldness, at how easy it seemed to talk to her. He hadn’t tried and now he thought he had been both a coward and an idiot for misjudging Sansa. Because of course, it would be easy to talk to her. Just because Lady Catleyn looked down at him, didn’t mean Sansa would do the same. He was sorry to realize the time had had wasted being quiet and sullen, trying to avoid Sansa.

Sansa snorted and even her snort seemed so lady-like. So queenly. “Yes, from the silly songs.”

“They’re not all that silly. You like those songs; it’s alright to like them.” Jon felt Sansa thought that he would be like Arya and that he would make fun of her and her tenderness and her girlishness. He never would have, but Sansa was also probably just realizing that now. He didn’t want her to suddenly leave, at least not without telling him what was bothering her. “I am scared.” He said finally when it looked like Sansa was not going to say anything else. “I’m scared I won’t be good enough at The Wall and it would shame father.”

Sansa looked away, suddenly shy. “You’re better at Robb in fighting.” It was a mumbled praise, but a praise nonetheless and Jon liked hearing her praise him, even when she quickly amended that Robb was better at sword fight and Theon with arrows. “You’ll never shame, father. You're kind and brave.”

Jon was sitting too close to her and he could see the edges of her sleeves fluttering at she trembled, trying to fight off her tears.

“Not like me…” she mumbled finally, letting a few of her tears drop unto her clenched hands. 

“Sansa,” he couldn’t help it. He didn't want to see anyone upset. Girls most especially. They all seem so impossibly fragile and Sansa wasn't just _any_ girl. She was his half-sister and if Robb wasn't around to comfort her, Jon was more than willing to do so. Strangely, it all seemed so natural for him. He reached out to very quickly, but gently brush her knuckles, getting her attention but not enough to scare her away. “Why would you think that?”

Robb and Sansa spent most of their days being trained and groomed. Robb was to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Sansa’s future as a Lady of a great house by way of marriage was already certain. No doubt, their father and the King had spoken about joining their houses, why else should the king bring his whole family to Winterfell? It was never implicitly said, but everyone knew that Sansa would not be marrying some minor Lord from the North of the South. She was born to become a Queen.

Jon would sometimes secretly watch her as she followed Lady Catleyn around the castle. Always so graceful, meek and demure when there were Lords and knights around; charming and sweet to the wives and children of the Northern Lords. Sansa always stood with her back straight, the elegant line of her neck accentuated by the stubborn lift of her chin every time she and Arya argued. Jon would often forget that she was just but a girl of eleven. She carried herself as though she was a princess about to be crowned queen. Of course, she still had childish whims, as Arya would often grumble about it, but the same could be said of Robb and him and even Arya, too.

Sansa shook her head, nervously wringing her hands on her lap. “I know I have done everything mother and the septa’s have taught me. I can sing and dance and sew and write poetry... but I… what if… what if the prince isn’t pleased with me? What if they make father return to Winterfell because I… because I’m not as lovely as the other Southern ladies who…who… _knows_ things that I don’t! Oh, that would be so shameful, Jon!”

Jon could feel his muscles tensing. “What do you mean? What sort of _things_?” He narrowed his eyes, feeling strangely protective and angry. “Did anyone tell you… did _Joffrey_ …” that little prick. If he had said and or did something inappropriate with Sansa, he was going to tell Robb and they’re going to beat the shit out of him. He didn’t care if he was a prince. 

Sansa was shaking her head, “No. It’s…Joffrey didn’t…but what if he… what if he tried to…to-”

“To what?” Jon asked, unable to hide the snarl in his voice. “If he tried anything, I can teach you to punch him or something…” Jon voice faltered and slowly faded at the horrified look Sansa gave him. “You don’t want to hit him, of course.” Jon was dismayed. He would’ve loved giving Sansa lessons on how to inflict pain on anyone who would try to steal her innocence away.

“What? Jon! No!" Sansa looked utterly scandalized, "Why would I – don’t ever say something like that out loud, ever again!” She cautiously looked around them, suddenly fearful.

“Well, if he was forcing you to do something that you didn't want to do, I don’t see why you can’t hit him.”

“Shush! I wasn’t… what I mean was,” Sansa looked at him exasperated, before closing her eyes and with a sigh and through gritted teeth mumbled something incoherent.

“Kick him?” Jon asked, confused.

“No! Gods! Kiss him! I said what if he tried to kiss me and I don’t know how?”

Jon felt his stomach squeezing painfully at the thought. “Do you… do you _want_ to kiss him?” There was a mildly horrified tone in his voice and he watched as Sansa winced.

“I don’t know. I mean, I… what should I do? How… how do I kiss someone?”

And now Jon understood why Robb would not be the best person for Sansa to talk about this. Robb would probably have wrapped his fist around Joffrey’s neck by now. Arya would be in tears laughing and teasing Sansa and Theon will be… well, Theon, would probably volunteer to practice with… Jon gulped. Was that? Did Sansa want? – something inside Jon stopped functioning altogether and he couldn’t form a coherent thought because he was suddenly aware of how inappropriately close he was sitting next to Sansa – _his half-sister, for fuck’s sake!_ \- and that if he took a deep breath (which he did) he could smell her clean, citrusy scent.

Nothing in the castle smelled quite like her.

And yet, she really seemed deeply troubled by this fear and he wanted nothing more than to reassure that this wasn’t something she was supposed to be afraid of. But for her to kiss Joffrey – or any other man for that matter – how could Jon be certain that they would be kind and gentle with her, that they will not make her feel uncomfortable, or worst, hurt her?

“Have you—I mean, with…anyone?” Sansa’s brows were scrunched up as she struggled for words. She shifted her position, making small nervous gestures with her hands.

Jon felt his whole face heating up. “What? No. I haven’t. I mean… no.” He stated it as firmly as he could, wondering why exactly, but he just wanted it to be clear that he had never kissed anyone as well. And it shouldn’t worry Sansa. It should not be that hard. Just lips against lips. There was nothing to worry about it.

“But _how_?” Sansa practically wailed and Jon wanted to shush her just as she had told him off earlier. He looked around, suddenly, ridiculously nervous. He wasn't doing anything wrong and yet somehow, Jon knew that he was on the verge of doing something he was not supposed to do. But there has to be a reason why he had found her and not Father or Lady Catelyn or Robb or Arya or thank the gods, Theon. There were more than a hundred people in the castle right now and yet here he was, the person Sansa had chosen to confess her fears to. 

Jon tried to be rational. Obviously, he was older than Sansa and he was responsible for and he very much wanted to take charge of the situation and make it better for her and ease her worries...All Jon could think of was that _he_ would be gentle with her. And it wouldn’t be like an actual kiss, wouldn’t it? He didn’t _want_ to kiss her. Not… _really._

Heart hammering inside his chest, blood pulsing inside his head, Jon very slowly took Sansa’s hand, giving her enough time to tell him no, to stop him, to snatch her hand back from him. She did none of those, instead she looked up at him, her blue eyes, bright and shining and when Jon shifted closer, her irises darkened. Jon swallowed hard. “Gently,” he answered. He winced as his voice had suddenly turned raspy. He cleared his throat, “he shouldn’t rush you or make you feel scared or when he sees you trembling, he’d hold your hands to let you know that you can always change your mind and not want to kiss him…”

Jon watched as Sansa nodded her head, returning the gentle squeeze he'd given her. Her tongue slowly darted out to wet her lips and Jon thought he might go to hell for this because now – **_now_** – he wanted to kiss her.

“And if I don’t change my mind?” Sansa’s voice had become softer, barely a whisper.

Jon found himself almost panting, unable to properly breathe. He felt like a steel band had wrapped around his heart, slowly tightening as he leaned ever closer. Mirroring Sansa’s action, he licked his own parched lips, scrapping his teeth as his tongue retreated. He watched, fascinated as Sansa's eyes followed the movement of his mouth. “He would keep his eyes opened, just so he could keep looking at you, at how beautiful you are and how wonderful the light from the sunset makes your hair glow like rich copper and he would want to touch you but he wouldn’t because it’s your first time and he wouldn’t want to scare you off, so instead he would reach out to touch the ends of your hair...your hair is so, so soft…” 

Jon had inched closer and now, if he dipped his head, he could easily capture Sansa’s lips. He wasn’t aware of anything anymore. It was just him and her and the sound of their mingled breathing. If he did this…it would not change anything. She would still head South, be married to a Lord or maybe yes, a prince and he would ride north, swear his oath and he would only have this memory of her and of this sudden inexplicable madness.

Would that be so bad?

“Sansa…I…” Jon closed his eyes and he could feel Sansa trembling and he knew she could also feel his hand shaking. 

“Jon,” There was something about the way Sansa said his name: a gentleness that he had never heard before, it surprised him, it made him want to hear it said that way again. Over and over and over. Maybe it was the knowledge that this would be his first and last time, maybe he truly did want to kiss his half-sister (and what did that make him?!) but Jon didn't care, he felt his heart ramming against his chest and the only way to stop that ache was to finally close the distance between them. 

He did. He moved just a fraction of an inch and by some form of magic, Sansa’s lips was against his. He felt rather that heard her sweet sigh of surprise. A delicious wonderful warmth slowly filling him up and Jon would have pressed harder, would have lifted his hand to cup her face…but he was his father’s son and honor was so deeply ingrained within him that he pulled back.

The kiss didn’t last a whole second. It could not have but still, when he opened his eyes, Sansa was staring at him, like their whole world had shifted and her face glowed with tenderness it made everything inside of him ache but in a lovely bitter-sweet kind.

“Like--- like that,” he finally said, his voice sounding deep and so very solemn.

Sansa nodded her  head, the faint flush coloring her cheeks made her look lovelier and Jon was both thankful and regretful that this would be his last memory of Sansa. He was about to say something, to ease the tension that he felt would surely creep up on them, when Sansa suddenly lunged herself at him, hugging him tight. She thanked him, told him to please, please, take care of yourself and then softly, lips moving against his cheeks: “goodbye, Jon.”

Before he could say anything, Sansa scrambled up and ran towards Winterfell, leaving him with her warmth and her scent the memory of their kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. I don't know how that went from the first part to the second part. I feel like there's a disconnect somehow? Ugh. Please let me know what you guys think. The flashback part was a bit... weird. It feels weird to me. I don't know why though. Ugh!! I think I might go back to this and do some changes. But yes, thank you for reading!


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